


to be wise and love

by fatalize



Category: No. 6 (Anime & Manga), No. 6 - All Media Types, No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: M/M, References to Shakespeare, simultaneously domestic and angst bc nezumi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 20:37:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12328449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatalize/pseuds/fatalize
Summary: Love. That’s what made a home for Shion—not Chronos, but his mother; not the room, but Nezumi, he supposed. The thought of Shion caring for him was not something strange, for the boy was always loudly declaring his feelings. The strangeness came from the idea of accepting, of reciprocating. Nezumi was too wise for that.





	to be wise and love

to be wise and love exceeds man’s might;  
that dwells with the gods above.

\- William Shakespeare, _Troilus and Cressida_

* * *

 

            The days Nezumi has off are rare, but when he has them, Shion is usually there with him in the underground room. Today is the exception; Inukashi said he really needed Shion as the clouds had gathered, ominous inky sheep saturated with rainwater, and he wanted to wash the dogs while the sun was still out.

            “I won’t be home for most of the day,” Shion had said the night before. It was late—the stars had been awake and blinking for hours, and Nezumi had just gotten home from a late show, yet Shion was still up, waiting for him. “There’s some leftover bread that you can have tomorrow, if you want.”

            “Yeah, sure,” Nezumi replied; they then said their goodnights, both exhausted.

            Entirely innocuous. Yet Nezumi still somehow feels irritated, now. He closes the book he’d fruitlessly been trying to peruse—he sees now it’s _Troilus and Cressida_ , not _Hamlet_ like he thought—and rolls over, staring at the wall.

            Maybe it was the way Shion so easily called this place “home.” It was almost laughable, to call this bunker a home. Home was a place with sunlight and grass, a place of safety and belonging, community, even—a sentimental place, a nostalgic place, a place that was now ash and dust and memory, rotting in the crevices of the past, unable to be excavated.

            The underground room was more a refuge, a storage room stumbled across where old books slowly decayed and weary insects came to die. The walls were cold, the space was small, but it sufficed, was more than enough to survive. And that’s what it was for, survival.

            What made it a home? Nothing; it was a place to live. Yet Shion had referred to it as such. Shion, of cushy Chronos, used to a higher way of living than Nezumi had ever known, would ever know. It was yet another thing he felt he would never understand about Shion.

            Nezumi suppresses a sigh, suddenly feeling exhausted. Maybe he didn’t get enough sleep last night, after all. He closes his eyes, and waits for sleep to come.

            It doesn’t.

* * *

            At least not right away.

            Suddenly the door opens, and Nezumi quickly opens his eyes—he’s not sure how much time has passed, but he can’t believe he’s let himself close his eyes for long enough to not notice the approaching footsteps outside. He’s used to sleeping lightly, to always be listening for threats; he berates himself a little for being careless, letting his guard down.

            Of course, it’s only Shion. How strange, that he’d become so accustomed to his footsteps that he thought them familiar, unthreatening.

            “I’m home,” Shion says.

            “…Welcome back.”

            “I got here just in time. It’s already starting to rain a bit.” Shion takes off his scarf, his jacket. Drapes them over a shelf.

            “I can turn on the heater.” Nezumi finds himself instinctively shifting over on the bed to make room. That, too, had become familiar, muscle memory, hadn’t it.

            Shion shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. I didn’t get wet.”

            “If you catch a cold, it’s not just a problem for you, you know.” Shion plops down next to him on the bed, a piece of bread in hand. “Hey, you _are_ wet. I can see it on your elbows.”

            “Big deal, it’s only a little.” He holds out the bread to him. “Did you eat yet?”

            Nezumi breaks off a piece. “No, not yet.” He takes a bite. “How was washing dogs?”

            “Rough! Inukashi wanted _all_ of them cleaned today, then complained that I was too slow. It was a real hassle.”

            “Sounds like it.” A pause. “This bread could use some cheese. Do we have any left?”

            “I’ll check.” The bed squeaks, and then Shion is over by one of the shelves used not for books but for food. Nezumi immediately feels the ghost of his absence on the spot besides him, cool air replacing his skin-warmth. “Doesn’t look like it.”

            “Bland bread. How pitiful. Oh well, not like it’ll kill us.”

            Shion sits back down next to him, close enough to touch if Nezumi inched his fingers.

            Once again, Nezumi finds himself slightly irritated. This idle small talk is fruitless; there’s no need for it, no point in it, and yet Shion persists. And yet Nezumi goes along.

            Talking to Shion is like being at a crossroads with reason; it would be wiser to keep your wits about you, your guard up, yet your tongue wanted to reciprocate, wanted to play along with his assuming friendliness.

            “So, what did you do today?”

            It was foolish. It was like that quote he had skimmed over earlier in his reading, how did it go—to be wise and love exceeds man’s might—to be wise and love—and love?—

            “Nezumi?”

            And love.

            “…I slept, mostly.”

            “Ehh, really? What a waste of a day.” He yawns. “Speaking of sleep, I’m beat. I’ll probably go to bed once I’m done with this.”

            Nezumi nods.

            Love. That’s what made a home for Shion—not Chronos, but his mother; not the room, but Nezumi, he supposed. The thought of Shion caring for him was not something strange, for the boy was always loudly declaring his feelings. The strangeness came from the idea of accepting, of reciprocating. Nezumi was too wise for that.

* * *

 

            Unfortunately, being wise did little to stifle the stirrings of his heart, rippling at varying degrees under the surface.

            They lay on the bunker’s single bed together, Nezumi again facing the wall, Shion facing the other way toward the open room. There are no night-sounds here, no crickets, no light wind, and they’re far and deep enough away from the West Block that any sounds of the night-life don’t reach them. All Nezumi hears are the occasional scampering of mice, Shion’s steady breathing, and his own heartbeat.

            He turns around, and it reminds him, now, of the first night he had shared a bed with Shion four years ago, the words he’d said; _living people are warm_. How he fell asleep right next to Shion, but only for a few hours; how, just like tonight, he’d watched him, thought it a miracle to be next to a human body that wasn’t a corpse.

            Nezumi watches as Shion’s chest rises and falls in a steady, even rhythm. Yes, it was always the simple things about Shion that drew Nezumi to him, the stupidly obvious fact that Shion was alive, but it was more than that, more than just the physical meaning. His heart was open, boundless, warm and inviting to all things the world had to offer, from the sun to the dirt to the scars on his own body; Shion would always, eventually, even if there was a bit of struggle at first, accept them as part of life, not letting himself be crushed by the weight of the world.

            Nezumi had thought the world was made of walls. The walls around No.6, the walls that kept him confined, the gray, lifeless walls of the Moondrop and Correctional Facility, the thick walls he’d built around his own heart. People were stone and steel, impenetrable, hardened from tragedies, unfeeling as their greed and desire surpassed their compassion and made them numb. All the people Nezumi had met after the night of fire and loss (where home became an ideal, impossible to reach, a childish fantasy) were like that; everyone was hard and cold, in it for profit and power and protection, _that_ was life. Except—

_“Living people are warm, huh.”_

            Is Shion still warm now, in this dank basement room, in this dwelling of poverty and death? Before he knows it, his hand is reaching out, making its way to Shion’s cheek—he places it there, gently, and—

            “Nnn? Huh? Is that you, Nezumi?”

 _Shit_. Nezumi is surprised that Shion woke so easily, but keeps his hand there, since Shion hasn’t moved to face him, already thinking up an excuse. “Yeah. I was just…” He moves his hand to Shion’s forehead, brushing away Shion’s sweaty bangs. “…I was just checking your temperature. You feel a little warm.” He clicks his tongue. “What did I tell you, you’re catching a cold after all.”

            Shion turns around now; Nezumi withdraws his hand. “Am not. I told you, I wasn’t in the rain that long. Your hand is probably warm from being under this blanket, is all.”

            “My, my, what a petulant child. You’re rather stubborn on this point, aren’t you.”

            “Well, I…” Shion starts, then shifts his gaze from Nezumi, pouting slightly.

            “Well, it’s not like you to be so tight-lipped,” Nezumi prompts.

            Shion looks up again, meeting his gaze. Hesitates for a second. Then says, “I don’t want you to worry about me. I want to prove I’m capable of taking on difficult tasks, and can take care of myself.”

            “Those intentions are all well and good, but mean little if you can’t follow through.”

            “I know,” Shion mumbles.

            “Come here,” Nezumi says, and before Shion can react or protest again Nezumi reaches out and places his hand on the back of Shion’s head, thumb resting by his ear, palm on his neck. He pulls Shion’s head closer, brushes away his bangs, then moves the hair away from his own forehead as he presses it to Shion’s. Shion is quiet, unprotesting.

            “…This is just like that night, too, huh,” Shion says, breaking the silence. “I checked if you had a fever the same way.”

            “Yes…you did,” Nezumi concedes, then pulls away a little. He brushes away a few more sweaty strands from Shion’s face, runs his fingers down his neck, lets his hand rest there again. He notices, this time, Shion’s pulse lightly tapping against his skin, racing a little faster than normal. “Lucky for you, though, if you have a fever, it’s a small one—only time will tell, so we’ll have to see how you are in the morning.”

            That’s it—conversation ended, case closed; Nezumi knows that he should retract his hand, curl up and turn around, let both of them rest and leave everything to the morning. Yet he lingers, keeps his palm curled around the heartbeats under Shion’s skin, fascinated by how _vulnerable_ Shion is. Here it is again, a display of his foolishly open heart, his trust—Nezumi knows just how easily he could crush Shion’s windpipe if he pushed down harder, how he could slit his throat if he retrieved the knife from under the pillow, how dangerous it is to be this close to someone with your neck exposed.

 _To be wise and love exceeds man’s might_ —the quote again enters his mind—and yes, it would be wise to be rid of Shion, to not be trapped by handcuffs and millstones, to protect only himself and cut out any attachments, any infections of sympathy. But if that were true, Nezumi knows now, he would have been a fool from the very day he entered the innocently opened window and spent that first night alone in Shion’s bed.

            Then, to Nezumi’s surprise, Shion lifts his own hand up and places it on top of Nezumi’s. “Nezumi,” he starts. “I know I said I didn’t want you to, but. Thank you for worrying about me.”

            Nezumi is dumbstruck for a moment, too stunned to move, but then he quickly pulls his hand away and turns to face the wall again. “Stupid. It would just be a big problem for me if you were sick, is all.”

            “Sure, sure~”

            “Go to sleep, or you’ll regret it in the morning.”

            No response. Nezumi peers over his shoulder to see Shion’s eyes are already closed, his body curled close to Nezumi’s back. Nezumi quickly inches away in hopes that Shion won’t notice Nezumi’s now-thundering heartbeat. It’s unlike him to lose his cool like this, he thinks; and after all, his heart should be walled up, soundless, not threatening to burst. Yet the way Shion innocuously put his hand on Nezumi’s, simultaneously showing affection and trapping him—it was too much.

            “…Gonna be another restless night, huh.”

* * *

            It must have been; by the time Nezumi is able to rest his eyes, Shion is already stretching his limbs, rising out of bed.

            Nezumi groggily turns over, then asks, “How are you feeling, Your Majesty?”

            “Great, actually.”

            “That’s good,” Nezumi says. Then: “achoo!”

            Shion turns back to look at him. They both stare at each other in disbelief.

            “Shit.”


End file.
